


Children of her Heart

by Demibel



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-24
Updated: 2013-02-24
Packaged: 2017-12-03 11:15:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/697657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Demibel/pseuds/Demibel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One-shot of Mère Hucheloup, the frustrated mother of the revolutionaries, and her time with them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Children of her Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Song in the beginning is Turning from Les Miserables.

_Did you see them_  
 _Going off to fight?_  
 _Children of the barricade_  
 _Who didn’t last the night?_  
 _Did you see them_  
 _Lying where they died?_  
 _Someone used to cradle them_  
 _And kiss them when they cried._  
 _Did you see them lying side by side?_

_Who will wake them?_  
 _No one ever will._  
 _No one ever told them_

_That a summer day can kill._

_They were schoolboys_  
 _Never held a gun…_  
 _Fighting for a new world_  
 _That would rise up like the sun._  
 _Where’s that new world now the fighting’s done?_

_Nothing changes._  
 _Nothing ever will._  
 _Every year another brat, another mouth to fill._  
 _Same old story. What’s the use of tears?_  
 _What’s the use of praying if there’s nobody who hears?_  
 _Turning, turning, turning, turning, turning_  
 _Through the years._

_Turning, turning, turning through the years_  
 _Minutes into hours and the hours into years._  
 _Nothing changes. Nothing ever can._  
 _Round and round the roundabout and back where you began._  
 _Round and round and back where you began!_

 

_They were school boys, never held a gun._

_“_ Mère Hucheloup” Courfeyrec said with his usual cheeky grin. “We will avenge you.” The losses she suffered throughout their occupation were horrid. Her good pots and pans, all the thread for their banners, her rugs nearly in tatters. The boys did what they could to console her, but they were children, not yet men. A kiss on the cheek or on the top of the hand was a pretty thing, but it didn’t replace her broken vases.

__Someone used to cradle them, a_ _nd kiss them when they cried_ _

_  
_Every night she would stay up, even after they had all left, or fallen asleep over some table or another and repair their pins., and their flags, and make sure each boy had a blanket over his shoulders if they were asleep. Only then would she finally blow out her candles and slip into bed, cold at this point with lack of another body to provide heat.

_Who will wake them?_

_  
_The day of Lamarque’s funeral, she helped them prepare their guns, making sure they were ready and presentable for their revolution. They peppered her with kisses as she rolled her eyes and pushed them away, telling them to get back to work after she straightened their pin.

 _Did you see them_ , g _oing off to fight?_

 _  
_She waved goodbye as they marched off, her schoolboys turned soldiers. She stayed with the one’s who stayed behind, keeping them company and laughing as they poked fun at her, as a young man would do.

_No one ever told them, t_ _hat a summer day can kill._

And then there was the commotion. Grantaire placing his kiss upon her lips to steal her last chair. The shooting, all the shooting. Their screams, on both sides. Her heart shattered with every bang of the cannon. And then the shouting. They were shouting for her. “Open the door! Please!” And all she could do was shut her window, block it out. Her schoolboys turned soldiers. She didn’t sleep that night, even after the shooting stopped. But she did open her window. She saw the red flag…hanging next to her leader. After that…she doesn’t remember.

Somehow, she ended up in the streets where her boys fought, along with the other women washing and scrubbing the blood from the cobblestones. Her fingers were as red as the flag that they left hanging. And she couldn’t help the memory of a young pair of lips brushing across her knuckles. A hint of stubble against her cheek. A strong laugh at her mock frustration. Her schoolboys turned soldiers, the children of the barricade, the children of her heart.

She washed their blood away with her fingers red as blood, and her useless tears wetting her scrubbing brush.


End file.
